Doppelganger
by trufflemores
Summary: 1.08. Something is up with Barry and The Flash.


If the Flash looks tired in the photograph Iris conscientiously does not use for her blog post – _Flash flagging_ is a death wish in a world where he's making a lot of unusual enemies, _fast_ – Barry looks exhausted when he slouches into the shop.

"Hey, Bar," she says, her hands pausing mid-post. "You're late."

"Sorry, I got – caught up," Barry says, and there's a weird inflection to his tone, deep, almost muffled, like he's catching a cold. "How was your shift?" he asks, taking a seat at the opposite end of the sofa.

She puts her legs up on his thighs and says lightly, "It was good. It went really fast and I made some good tips. Had to throw out a handsy asshole." She scrunches up her face. "Men."

"Men," Barry agrees, eyelids flickering like they want to close, and she wants to sit up and ask him what's wrong but she's comfortable and she knows he doesn't open up to people easily, tends to shut down as soon as anything gets too personal. _Why do you look like you've been up for a week?_ crosses her mind but not her lips.

Before she can think of a diplomatic way to ask _what's wrong,_ he asks, "How's, uh, your blog?"

She bites her lip. She told the Flash she didn't want anything to do with him, and she meant it. But she has friends here. And no matter how much she tries to detach herself emotionally from it, she sees the tangible evidence in front of her every day. The Flash is still out there saving people _every day,_ seeming to outdo himself in sheer audacity with each new assault on Central City's crime.

Even homicide rates have fallen, a statistic reflecting just how many crimes the Flash stops a night; you can't cause a genuine shift in crime rates without stopping a _lot_ of crimes.

Central City should be afraid of him, she thinks.

But they're not. They love him.

And, in a small corner of her heart that isn't cold and hurt and devastated, she thinks that she loves him, too.

All she says out loud is, "It's going well. But I think you're right."

He arches a tired eyebrow, inquiring.

"I can't keep chasing a red streak."

He closes his eyes and for a moment Iris thinks he looks hurt, but when he opens them they're clear, steady, utterly unreadable. "That's smart, Iris. It's not safe, putting your name out there. You've seen the kind of criminals he takes down. What would happen if they thought you were a friend of his?" He gives her foot a gentle squeeze. "The thought of any of them _hurting_ you . . . Iris, I can't live with that."

In her mind's eye, she sees the Flash, squaring off with someone just because she got caught in the crossfire, and thinks about how she would feel if he got hurt – or worse – trying to save her.

Even though she hates him for hurting Eddie, she still thinks, _Central City needs you_.

And sometimes, when she looks down a street or even up at the stars, she sees a red streak, and she can't deny it: _I need you._

He's a presence as simple and certain as the stars, rarely impacting her directly but every now and then taking her breath away.

"You okay?" Barry asks.

 _I should be asking you that,_ she thinks, and then his phone starts vibrating in his breast pocket and he finishes it out, clearing his throat as he answers.

"Hey," he says, and she can't pick up any of the conversation or any of the conversationalists, no names or hints dropped, and when he looks right at her with sad eyes. "I have to go. I'm sorry."

He starts to get up and she doesn't even think, puts her laptop aside and leans forward, grabbing his arm and pulling him back down.

"It's eleven," she says seriously, sitting cross-legged in front of him, looking at him even though he won't meet her eyes. "Unless our house is literally on fire or Dad's in trouble, in which case we _both_ need to go, then it has to wait, Bar."

His muscles tense for a moment and she thinks he's going to run, but then his shoulders slouch a little and he says in that same husky, not-quite-Barry voice, "I have to."

"Why?" she asks.

He doesn't say a word, and there's a tiny tremble in his shoulders, like he's trying to contain it but can't, and she leans against his side and can feel him shaking finely.

"I'm your best friend," she tells him, wrapping an arm around his waist and leaning her head on his shoulder, feeling his head tip ever so slightly to rest against hers. "Something's up, and I'm not letting you go until you tell me what."

He's silent for several long moments, and she feels his control falter when he says, "Iris."

Then it's back and he's rubbing his forehead, saying, "I've just been putting in a lot of hours at Star Labs."

She doesn't understand his evasiveness – doesn't understand where the rift formed between them – and then it hits her.

 _The lightning changed you._

"Maybe you need to let go of Star Labs," she tells him. He sits up, looks at her in blank astonishment, and she stares back, holding onto her resolve because she knows Star Labs matters to him but it can't matter _this much_ , it can't take him away from her, it can't make him a ghost.

"But – I love Star Labs," he says slowly, almost like he's speaking on behalf of a friend, a strangely choked emotion behind it. " _We_ love Star Labs."

"I love you, Bar, and honestly – it's killing you." She squeezes his hand, and it's cold, stiff, a tangible reminder that he isn't okay, that she has to stop him before he gets hurt. "You're more important to me than Star Labs. A lot more important."

He ducks his head, not looking at her, and she sighs. "Come here," she says, and she pulls him into a gentle hug, feeling his hands slowly come up to grip the back of her shirt.

She rubs his back slowly, feeling some of the tension ease from his shoulders, and when they pull back, he looks tired, so, so tired. When she pulls him to his feet, he doesn't resist.

His phone vibrates again and he fishes it wordlessly out of his pocket, staring at the screen before tapping out something and tucking it back in his pocket.

"Ready?"

It's late by the time they get home, after midnight, and she ambles off for a shower while he angles towards the kitchen.

By the time she gets back downstairs, he's finishing a peanut butter sandwich, expression softer, more at ease when he smiles at her. "Hey. Want one?"

"I don't know how you stay in shape," she tells him, amused, as he washes up. She catches him in a hug before he can walk away, startled by the narrowness to his chest, thinner than she remembers.

"I've been jogging," he reminds her, giving her a light squeeze back, shifting back, moving away.

She lets him go, feeling a surge of protectiveness as she watches him walk upstairs, the faintest trace of a limp in his step.

It sticks with her, that tiniest hitch, the chip in his armor, and she can't place it but she _knows_ it's familiar.

. o .

Late, when everyone's asleep and she should be, too, she pulls up her blog.

 _I don't know who the Flash is,_ she admits, _but I do know he's saving a lot of people and Central City is lucky to have him._

She hits send, feeling a wave of peace at the resolution – it's not forgiveness, not yet, but it's a start.

He'll see it. That counts.

Then she pulls up her files and finds the picture she didn't dare post before and wordlessly hits send.

And he does look tired, singed around the edges, but it's a rare shot – a close-up, where his face isn't visible but the rest of him is, and the fire is still raging but everyone's _safe_ and there's a little boy with his arms around the Flash's neck, hugging him hard, and Iris can hear the breathless, _It's gonna be okay_ as the Flash hugs back.

She has to admit: he's clearly hurting. She remembers him limping away from the scene, covered in burns, and wanted to ask him if he was _okay,_ because she's mad at him but she doesn't want him to die,but then he's gone.

But staring at that shot, a picture she could never have taken if she timed it, he's too fast, she thinks he's never looked stronger to her.

. o .

Barry looks stronger, too, in the morning. He isn't limping, and there's a slight, secretive smile he's trying to hide as he devours waffles by the pound.

"Damn, Barry," Joe says, and amusement clear in his voice as he finishes, "I thought you already went through your growth spurt."

"Second wind," Barry tells him, looking right at her as she joins them in the kitchen. "Hey, Iris."

She tries to superimpose the mask on him because it's crazy, but _nothing's impossible._

Barry looks at her and she sees how open and sweet his smile is, nothing like the tense jawline, the haunted eyes, and when he moves it isn't sinuous and calm, it's almost stumbling as he makes room for her at the island, Joe setting waffles on her plate and encouraging, "Eat up. We got lots."

She tries to imagine what it would be like, Barry and the Flash in the same room. She can see the Flash standing tall, utterly unbreakable, and Barry's giddy, shocked reaction because this is impossible but it's _real,_ and the vindication would be breathtaking.

Barry used to dissolve into gushing enthusiasm at the mere mention of Dr. Wells (he still wears his Star Labs t-shirts _every day_ ), he'd lose his mind if he met _the Flash._

And maybe that's why he's so opposed to the idea – seeing him, speaking to him, would mean accepting that he was real, that the impossible _existed,_ and the possibility that it was too good to be true would be crushing beyond words.

So Iris doesn't press him – quietly lets the two depart, the Flash confined to her computer and the occasional blaze of red down the streets, Barry's very real presence in her life accented by how he geeks out over comets and tachyons and the possibility of traveling fast than the speed of light.

When he catches a thread, she lets him spin a story, listens patiently as he talks and talks and talks, rambling endlessly about his projects, and she thinks, _You just need someone to talk to._

She doesn't let him off the hook – she insists that he meet her for lunch as often as she can swing it so she can ensure he doesn't run himself totally into the ground – but she does feel better, seeing the Barry she knows back, the Barry that isn't broken down and exhausted but light and bright and _strong_.

And if she doesn't know how she feels about them, about the Flash, about Barry, about any of it – at least she knows they're both alive, and she'll do whatever she can to keep it that way.


End file.
